Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Little Inclination to Travel

Sleep - but not redundancy - evades the insomniac, and so at 2 a.m. I go outside to enact a fantasy of starlight falling into my open hands. There is a point at which what happens begins to recede from us, or that is one's sense of it, in those moments when attention is not driven solely by perception of the other's engulfing needs. Stop eating me, is what I often want to say, and also stop using pronouns so literally. The self is a center of narrative gravity mostly, not a causal agent unto itself (or other selves or objects), and this understanding facilitates one's ability to allow the various opportunistic images - starlight, dogs, inner peace, whiskey, cake, justice et cetera - to simply track with neurochemical and biological (material) winds otherwise unnoticeable. Unmentionable? Words are useless before the image, as the image is useless before the underlying agency of Life, which is broadly perceived as a force, or an assemblage of forces (and effects doubling as forces), of which consciousness is merely one, and a dispensable one at that. The dog shows little inclination to travel, though I do head out into frosty fields to maximize darkness and distance, and she follows readily enough. Resignedly? There is no such thing as halfway, just as one does not really depart or arrive, a trippy sort of insight that goes a long way to reducing conflict, if you don't try to make it about God. My perception is that I turn to sex mostly out of boredom (since you can't assess Marder's analysis of supervenience, let's fuck), while wordiness feels truly creative (hence sentences, a joyfully solitudinous enterprise), and clarity - which is naturally the ultimate objective of our penchant (a kind of procreative lust, really) for objectification - is in a real and measurable sense the only orgasm there is. Let's do that again! Chrisoula used to ask if I knew what I was talking about or just talking but now she can tell the difference, hence her frequent variations on the theme of "kindly shut the fuck up." Well, the same old fatigue arrives on schedule, just like a bus, just like an oil change. As the sun emerges over yon horizon I fall into a brief but untroubled sleep, rising a couple or three hours later without design or ambition, and oh what a pleasant silence I can be.


  1. Thanks for reading Annie . . . this was fun to write, albeit dense and possibly too convoluted, moving into a landscape I've been studying for a couple of months now . . . I think there's a way to do this without pronouns, which always lead to such stultifying claustrophobia, and the highly personal demands claustrophobia always makes . . . you spend a long time wondering if you've got the right shoes and then just say the hell with it and go . . . ♡ indeed . . . thank you . . .